My train of thought has been cancelled.

I had something really great to say today but now I can't remember it because some sniffity lawyer has been in touch to complain about the last post I wrote, claiming plagiarism.

OK, it was my friend Carolyn and she's not going to be a real lawyer for ages (coming soon: who you are - what you are, or what you do?), but I didn't even see her post until just now, honest guv'nor.

Like training a dog to guard your house until it turns and bites you in the face, I slightly regret all the efforts I have made to persuade young Carolyn to engage in the art of verbal dysentery - but she's so good at the spoken kind and I thought it might keep her off the streets. It's not much, but she's fixing it up - a lick of paint, a carpentery montage and perhaps a visit from Kevin McCloud - and she'll be part of the blogerati, that great firmament of writers who don't yet have book deals and so are stuck writing blogs in the vain hope of being noticed.

I jest, of course - her blog is lovely, and she doesn't need a book deal because she wants some worthy career helping others, or something equally ridiculous. She is hands down the person I know most likely to get into some sort of trouble every time she leaves the house. It's got me thinking whether she does things that lead to complications or whether she's just more able to admit to and laugh about embarrassing moments.

My sister is vaguely similar but with darker undertones - bad things always happen to my sister. She got punched in Asda the other week. I mean, who gets punched in Asda? She was just walking down an aisle and got punched in the chest by the supermarket criminal element. They were off their tits on something, but they chose her. I could give you many such stories, but I really shouldn't.

Carolyn, on the other hand, is deeply comic and her thinking is mildly warped - like leaving tupperware next to the radiator. And I don't need to share any of her stories, because they'll all be here.